


Chasing Shadows

by dustandroses



Category: NCIS
Genre: Author's Favorite, Community: spook_me, Horror, M/M, Rough Sex, Spook_Me, smutfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-08
Updated: 2010-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-09 23:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustandroses/pseuds/dustandroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony searches the basement of an old abandoned apartment building for a snitch/suspect. He has no idea what he's just stepped into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by Ozsaur, my hero and shit.

Tony shivered in the cool air as he slid along the wall, making his way toward the intersection of two hallways, toward the soft noise he’d heard just a few moments before. He really thought their suspect had gone up to the roof instead of down to the lower levels, so the noise he had heard may have been a rat, or maybe a squatter – who knows. But you couldn’t be too cautious, even if the guy they were after was just a little rat bastard of a stool pigeon.

If Dawson had gone downstairs into the basement of this derelict old 30’s apartment building, then Tony could be coming face to face with him any second. He’d finally reached the corner, so he listened intently for any movement, his senses focused on the hallway he was about to turn into. Tony paused, wishing he'd worn his trench coat; it was colder down here than he would have thought. But it had been an unseasonably warm autumn day, and he'd taken advantage of the last of the sunny weather and left his coat behind. He ignored the goosebumps and put his concentration back where it belonged.

No noise. Right. He took a deep breath, braced his gun on his hand and went for it; he swiftly turned the corner and came face to face with – nothing. There was nothing there. He scanned both sides of the hallway, using the faint light that spilled through the open doorways into the hall, dividing the dusty pools of shadows on the cracked linoleum floor.

He stepped quietly up to the closest door – peered around, but saw no one. Finally he moved into the room, ready for anything, but the room was totally empty. The light coming from the cloudy glass of the half windows up near the ceiling was enough to see that there was nothing for anyone to hide behind, nothing to account for the sudden sense of uneasiness crawling over his skin.

He shook his head to clear it and moved quickly and carefully back into the hallway and across to the next door. By the time he’d reached the end of the hallway and the broken exit sign that claimed the darkness inside led to a fire exit, he was truly puzzled. He’d found nothing but empty fast food bags and booze bottles in brown paper, a few ragged blankets and a pair of worn boots strapped together with dirty, unraveling duct tape.

He’d been expecting to find furnace rooms and janitor’s closets, or at least storage units – something. But whatever those large empty rooms had been used for, there was nothing there now. With an internal groan, he realized what that meant – there must be another basement level. He looked through the doorway of the fire exit. Great. A dark, filthy staircase leading to a sub-basement that was probably even more dark and filthy.

Damn Gibbs, anyway. It wasn't Tony's fault that their beautiful, young witness couldn't keep her hands to herself. It wasn't like he'd encouraged her or anything - at least not while Gibbs was in the room. If Gibbs was going to get pissed off at him, it should at least be for something under his control. Sending him down to search the basement was pure and simple punishment for being his own irresistible self and Tony railed at the injustice of it all for just a moment.

He sighed softly, not wanting to advertise his presence any more than his trip down the hall already had, shrugged, and pulled out his flashlight. None of the faded sunlight made its way into the stairwell, so he was gonna have to do this the hard way. He was positive the noise he’d heard had come from this direction. There was nothing for it. As little as he wanted to do this, he was going have to brave the sub-basement.

Tony checked over his shoulder, although why, he wasn't sure. If there was anyone here, they were in front of him, not behind his back. Besides, Dawson was almost definitely upstairs, which meant that Tony was probably chasing down some junkie. With his luck, Probie would end up with the arrest while he spent his time hassling some drunkard. Flashlight between his teeth, he transferred his gun to his left hand just long enough to wipe his sweaty palm on his pants leg, briefly thankful he wasn’t wearing anything designer today. Well, nothing that showed, anyway.

He toed the door further open. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered to himself. Then he stepped into the stairwell.

The coolness of the hallway hadn't prepared him for the plunge in temperature. Tony shivered all over as he was wrapped in an icy chill. He shrugged it off, moving the beam of his flashlight around the narrow space. The trip downstairs was nerve-wracking if uneventful. On just about every step, he wished he was heading up instead of down, but Gibbs, Kate and Probie were upstairs – his assignment was down. Besides, with the amount of trash littering the stairs leading up, he knew he’d have heard it if Dawson had used that flight. The way down was clearer – the garbage pushed to either side as if the stairs were used more regularly. He didn’t know if that was good or bad, but at least it made it clear which direction he should go.

There was a bundle of old rags and some boxes stacked in the corner under the stairs, and after exploring it briefly, he decided someone had spent some time living here, but not recently. He stepped into the sub-basement hallway knowing that his flashlight made him a rather obvious target – there was no light at all down here. But there was no way he was stumbling around in the dark, so he used it, wishing it were a searchlight instead of a small penlight, but thankful for what he had.

He found the furnace rooms quickly enough, but there was little evidence of any visitors, the dust on the floor was thick, and obviously undisturbed, so he left those rooms alone. The elevator machine room was full of junk, the vintage equipment scavenged, but it was empty of squirrelly little snitches who preferred to hide rather than face Gibbs, so he kept going.

He glanced into the bottom of the empty elevator shaft, sighing - wishing he were upstairs instead, where he could see the actual antique elevator itself. He could just imagine the gilding on the elevator doors – would it be shiny metal, or warm inlaid woods with brass edgings? He reined in his thoughts harshly, it wouldn’t do to get caught up in the ambiance of this old building and forget what he was here to do.

He needed to get this done as quickly as possible, it wasn't simply cold down there any longer. There was a chill wind blowing on his neck, and he kept turning around to check behind him, even though he knew there was no one there. He couldn’t figure out where the wind was coming from – it had been cold on the stairs but he didn’t remember a breeze, so it had to have origins elsewhere. It wasn’t strong enough to disturb the thick dust and the heavy cobwebs hanging everywhere, but it was definitely enough to make him shiver.

It was only when he turned back to the hallway that he noticed the scuff marks. He should have noticed those before, even if the penlight did have a rather small scope. But it looked like someone had entered the sub-basement ahead of Tony, the footprints in the dust were clear and well defined, fresh. They went directly down the middle of the hallway, so despite the fact that he felt uncomfortable doing so, Tony eventually just gave the rest of the cluttered rooms a cursory glance and concentrated on making his way to the intersection of the two halls he had just approached from the other direction, one floor up.

By the time he reached the meeting of the two hallways, there was still just one set of footsteps heading around the corner. If Dawson was in the hallway, by now the flashlight would have made it clear to him that Tony was here, too. There was probably no reason to keep quiet now. But he couldn’t seem to announce himself, and in the end, he just went around the corner fast, hoping Dawson wouldn't want to confront him.

No one was there. With his heart pounding in his chest, he followed the footsteps on. He passed a number of doors on both sides, but they were all padlocked - the metal rusted and pitted, but the locks held. So after Tony checked the first few, he dusted the cobwebs and the grainy rust off his fingers and ignored the locked doors in favor of concentrating on the shadowy open door the penlight showed him at the end of the hall.

The footsteps led into the very last room on the left. One set of footsteps going in, and none coming back out. He leaned up against the wall outside the open door, listening for the slightest sound, but there was nothing but an almost unnerving silence. Despite his instincts screaming at him to just leave, he knew he had to enter the room and check it out. Using all the caution he’d learned over the years, he entered the room, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other. A swift examination of the small, cluttered room revealed no one there, and no other exit.

Focusing on the largest covered pieces of furniture, he did another check, but by the time everything was uncovered he was sure there was no one there but him. He sneezed loudly – he’d stirred up a lot of dust taking off the dust covers. Holding his breath, he waited for something, expecting some reaction from someone, but nothing happened. He really was alone in here.

The penlight revealed shelves along the walls, crowded with boxes, suitcases and trunks. Piles of junk and stacks of books were everywhere. Larger pieces of furniture were shoved into the corners with smaller pieces piled on top; there was no doubt this was a storage room - and a strangely undisturbed one, considering the wide open door - especially compared to the disarray in the rest of the basement.

Well, if Dawson had been here, he was gone now. Tony grabbed his phone and hit Gibbs’ number on speed dial, after checking to make sure it had been the prerequisite 15 minutes Gibbs had given him before he needed to check in – it had, but just barely. Weird. It seemed like he had been down there a lot longer. He put the phone to his ear just in time to realize he wasn’t getting any signal. He checked the charge, but it was fine. It must be the sub-basement. He must be too far underground to get his signal through.

He knew he needed to get upstairs before Gibbs started to worry, but this storage room fascinated him and he took a few minutes to look a little closer – uncovering more furniture with lush fabrics and plump pillows, glancing through boxes of old letters and journals, opening trunks full of draperies and bed clothes. It looked like someone had just packed their whole apartment into this cramped room, and all of it vintage 30’s antiques, mostly Art Deco.

He sighed as he ran his hands over a gorgeous glass and metal coffee table, etched glass glittering through the dust in the light of his flashlight. This stuff was worth a small fortune these days; he couldn’t imagine why no one had taken all this to an antique dealer years ago. He picked up a heavy brass ashtray that gleamed dully – someone had polished it recently, and then covered it up with a sheet. So very strange.

That chill breeze was back puffing against the nape of his neck. He turned quickly around, trying to figure out where the hell it was coming from. Shrugging it off, he was about to leave the room when a spot of bright color caught his attention – the lid of a large trunk sitting open, a flash of dark red and silver in a pool of black. He crossed the room, mesmerized, to find a beautiful, deep red cummerbund laying on top of a formal tuxedo – tails and all, an untied white bow tie draped across the black fabric.

His hands itched to touch all of it, the white gloves and top hat, the elegant lines of an exquisite silver flask and matching cigarette case and lighter, but there was no dust on any of this, it was like the owner had just taken the clothing off and laid them down just minutes before. He looked behind him, like he expected the owner to come striding up, then shivered again. He noticed a stack of pictures tucked in a corner of the trunk. Glancing around quickly, he holstered his gun, then picked them up, holding the penlight in his teeth to free up both hands.

The scene was a large, ornate ballroom, bright chrome and gorgeous inlaid panels decorating the walls. There were a number of men and women in the pictures, laughing, dancing, standing around in groups smoking cigarettes, sitting at tables drinking champagne or tumblers of dark liquor. He wished he could see the colors they wore - the stark black and white didn't really do them justice, although it did add to the mood invoked by the images. They all looked so refined and sophisticated, so very – thirties.

God, he loved that era. He’d always been fascinated by it. Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, Jean Harlow, Garry Cooper, Greta Garbo, Clark Gable – if he’d lived back then, what he could have done. He’d have lived in a building like this, surrounded by all this lush beauty and striking, streamlined décor. He’d have gone to parties like this, top hat and tails, white gloves and colorful cummerbund – dancing around the ballroom floor with a gorgeous woman in his arms.

He flipped through the pictures, caught up in the atmosphere; the laughing crowd, the dancing throng of people, couples pressed together – eyes only for each other, glimpses of the big band playing in the background – a beautiful woman at the microphone. One picture caught his eye and he pulled the flashlight out of his mouth to focus it better on the photo –a dark-haired man, tall and handsome and strongly built, leaned casually against the wall smoking a cigarette, the ornate flask in his hand proclaiming him to be the owner of the top hat and tails Tony was lusting over. The photographer had obviously caught him unaware, like he’d glanced around just as the camera had snapped his picture.

He took a deep breath. The dark, angry look in the man’s eyes sent yet another shiver up Tony’s spine – hurt and hunger warred in equal parts in that penetrating gaze, and Tony wondered what could possibly have caused the man that much pain. That chilly, elusive breeze brushed up against the back of Tony’s neck just then, setting the hair on his arms on end and making his breath catch in his throat.

Before he could react, he was thrown up against the wall face first, a hard, solid presence forcing him into the cold concrete wall and pushing the air out of his lungs. The photos in his hand went flying, and the penlight bounced off the top hat and landed on the cummerbund, pushed up against the fabric so just a little light escaped to cast a faint reddish glow over the objects in the trunk.

Tony’s cheek was forced up against the wall, and a solid body pressed against him, gripping one of Tony's arms behind his back. He tried to shove back from the wall, but his attacker pushed his hand farther up between his shoulder blades, and blinding flashes of pain shot up his arm. He couldn’t reach his gun, pressed up against the wall as he was; his entire body was between his free arm and his holster.

“What are you doing here?”

Dark and angry – the tone of voice alarmed him. He stilled, not wanting to take the chance of his assailant taking anymore of his anger out on Tony's arm. Despite the darkness, he knew it couldn't possibly be Dawson. The little rat was a foot shorter than Tony, and was as skinny as a runway model. Besides, his voice was about an octave higher than this deep growl. He knew it really couldn’t be, but Tony's mind’s eye kept throwing up the image of the man in the photograph. He’d trespassed, and now the man would exact his revenge.

“Look, I'm sorry. I didn’t know!” He wasn’t even really sure what he was apologizing for, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

“You think that’s enough? Just an ‘I’m sorry.’ You don’t even know who you’re messing with, do you?” The deep, raspy voice seemed familiar, something just off the edge of his conscious mind, and he searched for the connection, coming up blank.

He had no clue what the man was talking about, but it didn’t really matter at this point. He felt the hard body pressed up against him, not warming the chill that had penetrated right through his jacket, like he’d been down in this cold basement for much too long. Tony’s mind was blank – he couldn’t think of anything to say, and that was just so unlike him. This was not good. This was so not good. If he got out of this alive, Gibbs was going to kill him.

Gibbs. Gibbs? In an instant, everything snapped into place, bright behind his eyes, like the flash on a camera. What the hell was he thinking? Relief hit him and he slumped against the wall. He was such an idiot sometimes. Tony let his forehead rest against the cool concrete, then asked resignedly, “Let me go, please, Gibbs? My arm is going numb.”

A gust of breath blew past his ear as Gibbs sighed. “You had your back to the only entrance in the room. What the hell were you thinking?” The hand holding his sore arm let go; Tony stifled a cry as the limp arm fell heavily, brushing against Gibbs’ body as gravity pulled it down between them. He tried to push away from the wall with his good hand – wanting to massage the tingles from his abused muscles, but Gibbs pressed up tight against his back as soon as his arm was free.

“Gibbs?” He hated the thready, unsure quality of his voice, but he couldn’t help it – he was still trembling inside from the shock of someone taking him by surprise that way and couldn’t seem to get himself back under control. He usually managed to hide stuff better than this – especially from Gibbs. Showing too much emotion in front of his boss was never good.

Gibbs pressed his face into Tony’s hair, into the space behind his ear. “Mmmm. So warm.” That low, gravelly voice was back, sending blood to parts of his anatomy that Tony had tried, for over two years, to keep under control whenever Gibbs was around. He tensed. This was so bad.

“You feel so good against me. Let me…” His breathing was harsh in Tony’s ear, Gibbs’ hands tight on his arms. “I need…” He ground his hips firmly into Tony’s ass, revealing a hard-on that he couldn't mistake as anything else.

“Oh, god!” Tony's mind reeled. This wasn’t happening. He never got what he wanted when it came to Gibbs. He’d given up hope of that long ago. Tony gasped out, “What are you doing? Gibbs, we can’t…”

“I need you. Now.” His voice was urgent, and Tony’s mind supplied, in vivid detail, the look on his face. He’d never seen that level of need from Gibbs, but he had his fantasies to draw from – years worth of repressed desire bursting into his mind from the corners where he’d shoved them.

The thought made him moan. He wished Gibbs would let go of him – he needed to see Gibbs’ face, needed to see that this was real, not just an unusually vivid fantasy. Gibbs pulled Tony against him away from the wall, Tony’s feet stumbling to keep up, and suddenly powerful hands were roaming all over Tony’s chest. His thin button down offered Gibbs plenty of opportunity to explore his body, fingers catching on his nipples as they slid down to his belly.

He felt the blunt edge of Gibbs’ teeth gently press the skin at the nape of his neck, followed by a soft, open mouthed kiss. Tony shuddered helplessly, his head falling forward to allow Gibbs better access, his heart pounding so hard he knew Gibbs must hear it. “Please.” It was more of a moan than anything else. Desperate need voiced aloud. His eyes closed of their own accord – like it mattered in here. He was in the dark anyway. Even with his eyes open, his penlight’s glow was faint, practically smothered by the cummerbund.

When Gibbs’ hands moved below his waist, rubbing the length of his hard-on through his trousers, Tony grabbed his wrists against the almost overwhelming surge of pleasure. The twinge in his left arm reminded him this was real, not his imagination. He made one last, weak effort: “Kate and Probie…”

“…are gone. It’s just us, here. I need you. Now.”

Tony recognized that tone of voice. That was not a request, it was a demand. He had no choice but to acquiesce. Rolling his head back along Gibbs’ shoulder, he bared his neck and submitted. “Yes.”

Hands on his waist, Gibbs pushed him to stand on his own again. “Pants. Get them off.” The low growl got his sluggish mind working again, and he fumbled with his belt, surprised at how hard that simple, low command had made him. He felt light headed, still a little shocky from being manhandled that way. He paused and took a deep breath, then lowered his zipper.

The sound of the lid of the trunk slamming startled him, just before Gibbs’ hands pushed his trousers and boxers down together and bent him over the top of the dusty surface. Tony leaned on his elbows, his leaking cock rubbing against the side of the trunk, and gasped as Gibbs spread him wide. Slick fingers found his hole. He wondered where in hell the lube had come from as two fingers slid past the initial resistance of his body. Gibbs roughly opened him up, scissoring his fingers and thrusting them all the way in.

He thanked his lucky stars that he regularly played with his own toys, so he was fairly used to the intrusion. Then Gibbs pulled his fingers out and Tony felt the cold wetness of the tip of Gibbs’ cock brush over one butt cheek as he grabbed Tony's hip and lined up. Tony barely had time to brace himself, breathing out and pushing back against the burn he knew was coming. Gripping the edges of the trunk, he clenched his teeth, trying not to cry out as Gibbs plowed into him. Gibbs didn't stop until his hips were pressed firmly against Tony’s ass.

Tony panted through the stretch and burn – not really pain, but still more than he was used to with as little preparation as he’d gotten. Gibbs’ hoarse cry went a long way towards helping him accept that there was more up his ass than usual. “So good. I knew it would be. Knew you would be.” And then he started moving, and Tony forgot about everything else but the feel of Gibbs inside him – his hands gripping Tony’s hips tightly, his lips on Tony’s neck as he bent over and mouthed the skin there.

"You're mine now."

Tony tried hard not to come at those words, at the growling, panting voice in his ear. He didn’t understand how just a voice could be so erotic, but when Gibbs said something like that, every part of him wanted to surrender to whatever Gibbs demanded. Tony jerked cried out and his elbows slipped on the slick surface of the trunk, as Gibbs changed his angle slightly and his thick cock slid directly over Tony's sweet spot.

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been looking for. You like this, don’t you.” It wasn't a question. Gibbs' low voice held too much certainty. “You’ve wanted my cock up your ass for a long time. I can feel it, how desperately you want me. You crave me like a junky after a fix.” Gibbs took a deep breath like he was scenting Tony’s skin. “I can smell it on you. The longing. It smells like this, like sex and musk and need. You smell so good. So good.”

“Please – Gibbs…”

Those rough, powerful words stirred Tony in ways he'd never imagined. He felt raw and exposed; as if Gibbs could see right through all the masks he habitually wore. Combined with Gibbs' forceful presence and the possessive way he handled Tony's body, as if he had every right to control it and make it his own, Tony felt overwhelmed by the onslaught. The hands clenching his hips were his anchor. Gibbs gripped him as if Tony would be torn away from him at any moment if he didn’t keep him there by brute force.

Firm lips dragged across his skin just beneath his ear, the sensation adding to the pleasure of being fucked by someone who obviously knew what he was doing. The long smooth strokes of Gibbs' cock alternated with short, almost vicious jabs aimed directly at his prostate. A warm buzz spread throughout his body, slowly building in intensity, making it possible to ignore the coldness all around him. He could feel sweat form on his body as he fought to keep his balance.

“That’s it. So hot around me, so perfect. I knew you would be. From the moment I first saw you I wondered what you’d feel like from the inside. What it would be like to take you, make you mine. What that mouth of yours would feel like on my skin. My nipples. My cock. Oh. I want to know what that feels like. I bet you’re a good cocksucker. Those soft lips and that tongue of yours would feel so good, so damn good.”

Tony wasn’t sure how much more he could take. His cock was rubbing against the side of the trunk, sending bolts of pleasure up his spine. All those hot, sexy words coming out of Gibbs’ mouth were almost enough to make him spill without a hand touching him. He tried to hold still, tried to hold on, not wanting it to end, but tensing like that had a side effect – the pressure of his muscles clamping down on Gibbs’ cock was just what Gibbs must have needed to lose all control.

Gibbs cried out, adjusted his stance again, and started pounding into Tony. The force of his thrusts pushed Tony's arms along the top of the trunk and he lost his grip, slipping off his elbows to lie flat across the slick surface. He was having trouble breathing - Gibbs body pushed the air out of him with the ferocity of his thrusts, and left him half stunned.

When Gibbs teeth closed over Tony’s nape and bit savagely, Tony screamed and came. His body jerked as the powerful sensations jolted through him, overwhelming him. The last thing he heard was Gibbs whispered voice in his ear.

“Mine.”

Then everything went black.

* * *

  
There was a buzzing in his ear, rattling his brain, pissing him off and making him snarl at the annoyance. He was lying on something flat and uncomfortable, and he was bent at the waist, his legs pressed against… His eyes popped open. Shit! He was still draped over the trunk, his pants tangled around his feet, and the buzzing noise was his phone, sitting right in front of his nose. He grabbed the phone and flipped it open, his eyes going to the time. He’d only been out for a second or two, he was pretty sure of that.

McGee’s voice was scratchy and faint. “Tony? Hello? Tony? Are you there?”

Tony put the phone to his ear and tried to speak, but nothing came out until he cleared his voice and tried again. His voice was rough. “Yeah, I’m here, Probie, no need to shout.” He cleared his throat again. “Are you at headquarters already?” He looked around for Gibbs, squinting in the dark. Remembering his penlight was inside the trunk, he got shakily to his feet, almost stumbling over the pants around his ankles.

“God, Tony, where have you been? Gibbs is about to blow a gasket, why didn’t you check in? He’s ready to strangle Dawson, and he keeps threatening to leave you here by yourself while he takes Dawson to headquarters.”

Tony shoved open the trunk and fumbled for the little flashlight still glowing red against the cummerbund, and noticed with regret that the trunk lid has damaged the top hat beyond repair. He puzzled through McGee’s words as he flashed the light around the room, looking for Gibbs.

“What do you mean – I thought… I thought you'd left already.”

“No, Gibbs wants Kate to go with me in the ambulance. There’s really nothing wrong with me, just a bump on the head and a bruised throat, but Gibbs wants to be sure.”

No sign of Gibbs. Tony propped the flashlight on the crushed top hat to give him some light and grabbed the handkerchief from his back pocket. He cleaned himself up before pulling his boxers and trousers over his freezing legs, holding the phone between cheek and shoulder as he spoke.

“Dawson grabbed you? That little weasel? What the hell, Probie?”

“I was with Gibbs up on the third floor. Dawson hit me from behind, then he grabbed me around the neck. He and Gibbs were in a stand off until Kate distracted him long enough for me to stomp on his foot and break away. He started to run, but Gibbs tackled him. You should have been here, Tony, you missed all the excitement.”

Tony finished buckling his belt, and straightening his clothes while McGee talked, a sense of unease building in his gut. If Gibbs had been upstairs tackling Dawson to the floor, then how had he had time to get down here and fuck Tony senseless on top of that old trunk? Gibbs had said Kate and McGee had already left, but…

“Tony? Tony, are you okay? Did something happen down there? What’s wrong?”

He grabbed the flashlight and swung it around, the beam moving wildly from corner to corner, but he was still the only one in the room. He swallowed, trying to regulate his breathing before it gave him away. “Nothing’s wrong, Probie. Nothing at all. Just jealous that you guys had all the fun while I was down here chasing – dust.”

“We’ve been trying to get you for ten minutes, now. Did you have your phone set on vibrate again?”

“No. Well, yeah, I did. But that wasn’t the problem. I tried to check in, but there was no signal. I’m in the sub-basement, so I thought that was the problem, but…”

“The ambulance is here, Tony. I have to go.” He could hear Kate’s voice urging McGee to hang up, and Gibbs’ voice came through loud and clear: “Tell DiNozzo to stop playing around and get the hell up here before I leave him.”

“Gibbs says…”

“Yeah, I heard him. Tell him I’ll be there in just a minute, okay?” Tony hung up. He was having trouble taking all this in. What the hell had happened? He realized with a start that he hadn’t seen Gibbs’ face the whole time he’d been down here. And it had been Gibbs. He knew that. Knew it. There was no one else it could have been.

He shivered. The only signs that anything had happened here was Tony’s come dripping down the side of the trunk and Tony’s bruised and aching body. He rubbed his hand over his hipbone to ease the soreness from when it had pushed over and over into the trunk lid. It was just too much. He had to get out of there. He used his handkerchief to clean off the trunk – it just didn’t seem right to leave that there – then stuffed the cloth in his pocket.

As he turned around to the door, his shoe slid on something, one of the photos he’d dropped, lying face down on the floor. He picked it up, turning it over to the image of the man in the elegant tuxedo, those intense eyes staring right into him. He shivered again, threw the picture into the trunk, and pushed the lid down with a bang. That was it. He he was outta there.

As he trained his penlight on the door, the dusty footsteps that had led him into the storage room caught his eye. Two sets of prints led in, and none led out. He felt a chill run up his spine, and he practically threw himself out the door. He intentionally scuffed the dust and obscured the footsteps as he left, slammed the door shut and walked rapidly to the exit. As he headed to the stairs, he felt that chilly wind across the back of his neck again. He reached up and the raw soreness on the nape of his neck jolted him like a surge of electricity.

He turned his back, and jogged up the stairs – and if he thought he heard his name called softly behind him as he left, he didn’t look back. It was just his imagination.


End file.
